During early autumn, 2020 (you know, five thousand years ago), while envisioning what I hoped the third issue of 1455’s MOVABLE TYPE might be, I resigned myself to the inevitability that, by the time of its publication, it would be dated. In fact, and against all reasonable assumptions, events and reactions in America are moving so quickly that the news cycle can accurately be measured in seconds rather than hours (the days when it might be measured in days seem archaic; something, bizarrely, we might aspire to in 2021 and beyond).
So, without knowing how the November election would play out, and blessedly oblivious to how disgraceful the aftermath could become, I reached out to writers who, I knew, could speak to an array of topics with authority, all reflecting an intentionally disparate spectrum of perspective. Still, the best political writing is almost by definition a reaction—it is assessing or reframing events both recent and distant. On the other hand, writing that is too concerned with topicality will have a necessarily short shelf life. These essays, I believe, were relevant three months ago, they’re more relevant today, and will be relevant—and enlightening—three years from now.
The title of this issue, The Political Imperative, should illustrate intent. These writers, and their works, were chosen because they tell us with clarity and conviction about the here-and-now, but also how our present tense is always informed by the past with an eye to the future. That the future, however ideal or dystopian, is not a certainty until it happens provides hope. It also presents urgency: if enough of us work collectively to dispel misinformation, to rally kindred spirits in various causes, if we refuse to look away, we have a fighting chance to resist apathy, or worse.
Here, then, are voices that defy silence and reject despair. These words are meant to engage and inspire. This writing is an invitation.
From my introductory Director’s Note: Reading writers who have helped change the world changes you. You come to appreciate what William Carlos Williams meant when he wrote “It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.” Certain seminal works alter your perception of the big picture: cause and effect, agency vs. incapacity, and history vs. ideology.
Why bring politics into it, one might ask (and a certain political party reliably does)? Short answer, duh. Longer answer, courtesy of the ever-reliable (and prescient) George Orwell: “The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.” If we’re made to see others it’s possible we’ll see ourselves. Bearing witness requires listening as much as speaking out. This is one meaningful way writers can hold others—and themselves—to account. Without engagement none of this is possible and, in 2021, it seems not only irresponsible, but immoral to look away.
Tara Campbell’s essay “Write, Edit, Act” sets the ideal tone for the pieces that follow: The most profound political art helps us understand the world around us, invites us to interrogate how we wound up where we are today—without necessarily feeding us a solution. Political writing can lose its potency if it’s too polemical or prescriptive, just like science fiction is less satisfying when it’s more about gizmos and plot than an emotionally rich story. In both cases, the key is not only
the what, but also the what it means. And that’s what we writers are good at: noticing a detail and seeing its connection to the larger world—using the specific to get at the universal.
In his perceptive piece “Democracy & Imagination,” Matthew Davis explores where we are, and where art might take us: I do believe Masha Gessen when she writes that “the imagination is where democracy lives.” The stories of our American literature the next decade will go a long way in determining whether we can overcome the split-screen of our national reality. These stories and the writers who tell them will indicate the strength of both our American democracy and our American imaginations.
In her essay “The Watergate Dilemma,” Bethanne Patrick recalls: In 1972, every adult was watching the news. Previous presidents, even the ones parents didn’t like (Eisenhower could be “prissy,” LBJ “vulgar”) were accorded the kind of respect we imagined the ancient Greeks had for the gods of Olympus. I pored over my mother’s stack of Good Housekeeping magazines, and every year the list of Most Admired Women was topped by the First Lady, in part because of her association with the de facto Most Admired Man, The President.
For his devastating, beautiful, and important piece “A Drop in the Ocean,” the poet and photographer Justen Ahren recalls his experience assisting refugees overseas: When I saw the images of people filling the ocean, I felt sad, angry. But the problem with the continuous diet of news we are fed is one outrage is quickly supplanted by another, and another. We can’t take it all in. We get overwhelmed, numb. The antidote for me was to get involved. It wasn’t comfortable to witness. It hurt to hear people’s stories. But I had a better understanding of what was happening and why.
Tom Kapsidelis, whose seminal study of gun violence, “After Virginia Tech,” discusses the ongoing challenge of working for sensible gun safety policy: That the politics of gun rights─which for many means an unfettered right to carry weapons anywhere and everywhere─would intersect with the outrage over wearing masks and restricting businesses comes as no surprise and illustrates the division over the role of science in policy making. Listening to the science applies to the pandemic and gun violence, as public health scholars have applied their expertise in areas ranging from extreme risk protection orders to gun permits.
Kathleen J. McInnis reminds us that the ignorance and incompetence that marred our nation’s response to the COVID crisis can be traced back to decades of inaction: Unfortunately, the story of neglect of our institutions begins decades ago. American leaders sought to cut the military at the end of the Cold War. But when push came to shove, the State Department and U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) were the institutions that suffered the most in the 1990s. Our ability to do things like counter Russian disinformation, navigate international trade negotiations, and foster democracy overseas began to dissipate. Meanwhile, the military industrial complex hummed along.
Finally, my piece “Want to Change the Narrative? Tell a Good Story,” I try to connect the importance of creativity to affecting meaningful change: If we wish to somehow refute falsehoods, encourage empathy, imitate the best work of those who’ve gone before us, and find ways to stimulate dialogue rather than shut it down, understanding—and promoting—the importance of storytelling is in our collective best interest…through narrative we can cultivate our better angels and celebrate the diversity—geographic, ethnic, political, personal—that has always defined the American experiment.
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